


Moonlighting

by wisdomeagle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst and Smut, F/M, Older and Sadder, Porn Battle, Post-Canon, leather pants for everyone, one-night stand?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-17
Updated: 2007-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2025135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisdomeagle/pseuds/wisdomeagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toast. (A long-time unexpected ordinary gig one night never.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonlighting

"Buffy?" he asks, without astonishment. She turns around slowly. No one says her name without baggage attached. Except -- she takes in a lanky frame, the tuft of black hair, spiced with white, the nerd-cool square black glasses, guitar pick dangling from stubby fingers, nails purple and neatly trimmed.

"Oz. I..." _Never expected to see you again_. "What the hell are you doing in L.A.?" Nice, Summers. Very friendly.

He nods toward the stage. "Got a gig."

She hadn't noticed the band, but now she sees that they are all, like Oz, skinny adults showing signs of age who play their instruments with surprising grace and the surety that, since _they_ have become adults, maturity is now cool. Not that Buffy can argue; her undyed hair is tied back in a tight ponytail, and, too thin and prone to sensible shoes, she looks more like an aging riot grrl than the oldest Slayer in the world. First. Best. Her lines are still clean, her technique precise, and she's still mobile. There's no need to feel defensive about her record, even if Oz does say, "I heard you were dead."

"I was."

"You're surprisingly spry." He grins. "What brings you here?"

"Had a tip." She scans the club again, but if there's a vamp he's wise to the usual mistakes, which could be trouble.

"I'll let you work."

She nods, and is about to let him slip away again ( _Hey, Will, you'll never guess who I saw in America_ ), but another night in the ruined Hyperion will make her barf. She reaches for Oz's arm. "Hey. Um, this is really awkward and all, but. Do you have a place I could crash? Just for one night. Um. Because my actual apartment is kind of in... another continent."

"You don't mind a mattress."

"I've seen worse."

"Me too." He touches his bracelets.

"Hey. Oh. I'm taking your bed, aren't I? God. Don't. All I need is a sleeping bag and a corner."

Oz nods. "No one would have to sleep on the floor," he says. "If you want."

"Oh." This is the best offer she's had in months. People who know her and her history are too complicated or are too savvy to want her, are her sworn enemies or friends she's sworn not to fuck. And while Oz never seemed her type -- wiry and witty when that was her job -- what did Buffy know about desire when she was eighteen? She didn't know that the thrill of the hunt, the ecstasy of moving into a vamp's space, the precision of penetration, was less than half anger, was hardly rage, was pure desire, funneled through her stake into a vamp's heart. She holds that fuel when she knocks on Oz's door. He steps aside to let her in with a wry grin and a bottle of cheap wine, which he pours into plastic cups. They knock them together carelessly.

Buffy sits on Oz's mattress, stained with soy sauce and semen, and drinks wine. She lowers herself tensely to the bed, letting a loose spring scratch her. She's itchy all over. When Oz sets aside his wine, she puts her arms around his neck to pull him down to her, opens her mouth wide and draws his tongue in, deep, straight to the core. Desire comes as an ache, yearning, a slow sprawl as she lets her legs spread wide, as Oz slowly, finally, slides a hand up her shirt. He unhooks her bra and finds a breast easily, circles her nipple till she can't help but buck against him, struggling to free some appendage so she can open his fly to work his dick. She feels towards his crotch and discovers the beginnings of an erection, which she can stroke through the fabric of his trousers when she remembers to feel anything except the seep of longing between her legs.

When Oz releases her mouth she realizes that the lump in her throat is a sob she's been holding in for years. She rocks her cloth-covered cunt against Oz's thigh, keens against his hairline. He rocks too, shifting his thigh so somehow the pressure's all just below her clit; she feels hollow and naked though she's clothed, and the alcohol is settling languor into her veins. She reaches for Oz's zipper but he touches her hand no.

"Mrr?"

He shows her, tufts of -- hair? -- _fur_ on his wrist. Shrugs. "Some things trigger."

She laughs around another sob. "We're a mess, aren't we?"

"Hey." He cups her face in one hand, her mons in the other, still through leather, and his thumb works her clit. "We made it, didn't we? We're here."

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where it's due: "Pretty spry for a corpse" is a line from canon.


End file.
